


Cracked

by Bumblie_Bee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumblie_Bee/pseuds/Bumblie_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a fall on a case Sherlock tries to hide his Injury, and his past, from John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock ran down the street, breathing hard, adrenaline pumping through his veins and his thick blue coat flowing behind him. He was closing the gap between himself and the Runner and he knew the man ahead was tiring. He could hear John’s footfalls crunching heavily on the gravel as he ran, his brilliant brain never stopping, always knowing what was happening around him. But there was one thing Sherlock’s thundering brain didn’t notice, not until it was too late anyway. One second he was running as fast as he could, his only intention on catching up to the mysterious figure in front of him and the next his foot was caught on a wooden block, his body flying through the air. He landed with a loud thump, a slight crack and a sudden searing pain through his right arm. 

Sherlock rolled and pushed himself up into a sitting position as he instinctively pulled his arm in, cradling it on his lap. He felt his eyes close and face tighten with the pain but instantly smoothed it out as he tried to steady his breathing and calm his racing heart. He reopened his eyes just in time to see John skid to a stop in front of him. John opened his mouth, obviously about to ask the dreaded question of ‘Are you okay?’ but Sherlock was quicker. 

“I’m fine, go,” he hissed, nodding in the direction of the Runner. John nodded quickly at his friend before he continued sprinting down the road. Sherlock released the breath that he hadn’t been trying to hold the second John started to run. He looked down at his throbbing arm in his lap and gently pulled back the sleeve of his coat, fumbled with the button on the cuff and finally pealed back the sleeve of the shirt. The arm was pale and unmarked but he could tell it was broken, simply by the pain radiating from just above his wrist, the position he had landed in, and the loud, inevitable crack as he had hit the floor. 

He studied the arm further, his deduction skills working hard on the severity of the break. The bone had not pierced the skin, obvious, so not an open fracture, and the wrist still looked relatively normal so hopefully the bones hadn’t moved. That was good, so long as the bone could heal properly by itself he wouldn’t need to go to the hospital; hospitals were dull. He knew what John would say, though, if the doctor knew that he was hiding a break, but he had done it before when he was little. It was actually the same wrist, when he thought about it, that he had broken when he was eight, the break he had hidden from his family. Unsurprisingly it had been Mycroft that had noticed that his silent and sulky younger brother was only eating with his left hand, the right cradled on his lap. He had been stupid then though, the break was serious and the bones out of place, caused by an Idiot three years older that had twisted his arm behind his back although, judging by the bully’s surprised squeak when the crack had sounded, he had not been aiming to break the bone. 

Sherlock was pulled from his memories by the sound of feet on the gravelled path. Judging by the weight of the footsteps and the stride length he could tell that it was probably John and not the Runner. He glanced up, confirming his deduction, before, as hurriedly yet carefully as he could, pulled the sleeve back down, buttoned the cuff and slid down the coat sleeve. Slowly Sherlock eased himself to his feet, cradling his throbbing arm to his stomach. John jogged towards his friend, panting hard and clutching his side. The look on his face showed the Runner had gotten away. 

“Are you okay?” he gasped eventually, when he had calmed his breathing enough to speak, still holding the apparent stitch. 

“What?” asked Sherlock, feigning innocence in hope that John would leave him be. The plan failed though and John nodded towards his friend’s arm that he held with the other. “Your arm?” he asked, his voice still breathless.

“I’m fine, it’s just a sprain,” he replied with a slight shrug. The doctor nodded sceptically but said nothing, not wanting to start an argument. Together they walked down the side street towards the main road to hail a cab; they had run too far from Baker Street to make it back on foot and it was dark and, though he hid it well, the constant throbbing in the detective’s wrist was getting to him. 

***

The Taxi drive to Baker Street was taking longer than normal as the traffic was at a total standstill. Sherlock hated it, he could feel his wrist beginning to swell inside his cuff and he needed to get the shirt off. He also knew that he needed to ice the break to reduce the bruising and swelling as both would alert John to the true extent of his ‘sprain’. He rested his head against the glass, sending himself to his Mind Palace to free himself of the pain, but it was hard and the pain was still there just now buzzing at the back of his mind. Why wasn’t it working properly? It had worked all those years ago, when he was young. Although, that was probably because he hadn’t been the most…sane of children when he was eight. 

Sherlock suddenly because aware of a gentle hand on his shoulder. He jumped upright, grimacing as the pain returned in full blast to his arm. He winced involuntarily and shut his eyes, only opening them again when he heard John worriedly asking if he was alright. The cab was quiet, and the engine off. They were home then, back at Baker Street.

“Mm, I’m fine,” he mumbled as he opened the cab door without looking at his friend and climbed from the taxi. It was cold outside, and dark but at least they were home. He hurried to the flat, leaving John to pay for the cab and pushed at the door, only to find it locked. He fumbled for his keys, glad that he had put them in his left pocket of his coat that day and unlocked the door. He pushed it open, trying to appear as calm as he could as he hurried into the flat. He rushed up the stairs despite the searing in his wrist as he heard John shutting the door behind him. Knowing he needed to ice his wrist he went to the kitchen to find some. 

Oh, there was no ice in the freezer, he remembered now, he had used it all up last week for an experiment and had not replaced it. He would have to just use cold water then. Knowing that he couldn’t rest his wrist in the bathroom sink he ran a cold bath, removed his shirt and coat, with as little wincing as possible, and knelt next to the bath, leaning over it and letting his arm float on the surface. Despite the unusual position, the bath wasn’t as bad as he had thought, maybe a little uncomfortable but bearable. Presides, it took the edge off the throbbing in his arm. 

He had only been in the bathroom for a minute when there was a tentative knock at the door. 

“Are you Okay in there, Sherlock?” asked John, cautiously. Why was he always so concerned?   
“I’m fine John,” sighed Sherlock, “Just having a bath,” he added, hopefully that would keep his friend and his dreaded doctoring skills away for a while. 

“Okay,” replied John, although the worry was still evident in his voice. Sherlock knew his arm would be bruised, swollen and painful for another six weeks at least and held back a dramatic sigh. He wouldn’t be able to use it at all for the first couple of weeks in case he jostled the bones out of place and then it would still be fragile, possible for months. That meant no energetic cases, no running, no fighting and it was then that he decided that they could possibly be the six longest weeks of his life. 

***

Three days later and Sherlock was board. He had not been able to go to any cases as Lestrade knew him better than John and was sure to notice his lack of arm movement. Surprisingly John had said very little over the past days, being at work for two of them. It was just before dinner when John brought the subject up for the first time since the night they had chased the Runner. 

“Sherlock, let me take a look at your arm,” sighed John, eventually breaking the silence. 

“It’s fine,” said Sherlock, as he Googled the toxicity of metallic acrylic paint on his phone. 

“Sherlock!” John tried again, the exasperation clear in his voice as he watched his friend typing away on his Blackberry. 

“It’s fine,” the detective repeated, still glaring at his phone.

“Look, there’s no point lying, it’s obvious your arm hurts,”

At this comment Sherlock looked up, raising his eyebrows in interest. He was certain that he had shown almost no outward signs of the pain he was in, but then again, John was a doctor so he had probably seen people hiding pain many times before. “Go on then,” Sherlock replied, his BlackBerry forgotten. 

“Well, I think you broke your wrist, when you fell, ” his flatmate began, somewhat nervously. “You see, normally when you hurt something you try to ignore it, no matter how much pain you’re in. Remember after you were knocked down and we practically had to force you to use the crutches? Well, you haven’t been using your right hand since you fell.” Here Sherlock opened his mouth to argue back but John continued, not allowing the detective to get a word in. “I know you’ve texted but you’ve been using mainly your left hand and you’ve had your phone in your lap the entire time so you haven’t had to move your wrist. Not to mention you’ve been doing everything left handed with your right sat in your lap for days and you hold it still when you walk. And you haven’t played your violin. But it’s not because of the pain is it? It’s because you don’t want to jostle the bones out of place because that would need a trip to the hospital. But mainly, I can just see the extensive bruising at the base of your hand; you wouldn’t get that from a sprain.” John smirked slowly despite his worry at the shocked look on the detectives face. 

“See,” he grinned, “you’re not the only one who can deduce things!”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock pushed himself upright, staring back at John across the room, his eyebrows knitting together as his phenomenal brain tried to puzzle it out. John knew now, didn’t he? So there was no point hiding his wrist and the break inside. But then again, his friend was a doctor and he would be sent for an x-ray, the only sensible option in the opinion of a medic, and he really did not want an X-ray taken of his arm. He knew from past experience on his cases that fractures in bones can be seen even after they are healed as the bone is newer there. John would want to see the x-ray of his arm, and would then see the previous break from when he was eight and the metal that had been left there.

He hated that time in his life, the time he was at school. Well, pre-prep was okay, all the children were small and ignorant, and neither knew or cared about the ways of life then. He was still strange to them though, and they called him names but other than that they didn’t really think about it, too interested by Lego and such things. When he moved up to Prep school, well, that was a different matter. The boys were bigger there and he was just a pathetic year three, or Upper II as they were called. The year six boys had hated him, beat him in the playground, although not enough to do any real damage. They were all so much bigger and stronger and, although he would never admit it, they scared the life out of him. Within a week of starting ‘Big School’ he had stopped talking, to his teachers, to the other boys and girls in his class, to everyone in the wretched place. Eventually he stopped talking at home too. He remembered the silence at school, his fear of speaking, his fear of those boys… 

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock’s head snapped up, John’s voice pulling him from his memories. He wondered how long he’d been sitting there, staring ahead with his eyes unfocused, locked in his mind. Probably a while, judging by the doctor’s worried expression. 

“Mmm?” he replied eventually, still looking at John with a look of confusion, faked obviously. 

“Um, are you alright?” John asked cautiously, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Perfectly” Said Sherlock, picking up his phone and tapping on the small keyboard. He risked a glance up when John didn’t say anything. The doctor was looking annoyed, running his hand through his hands in frustration. Sherlock relaxed slightly, his mask was back up then, hiding his emotions.

“Sherlock!” John argued. “I need to see your wrist.” 

“It’s fine” insisted the detective, not looking up from his phone in hope that his friend might drop the subject.

“We are not having this conversation again Sherlock!” 

No reply, only the tapping of BlackBerry keys. 

“Fine, Sherlock! You sit there and ignore me! But if you end up with permanent damage to that wrist or your hand then it’s your own fault, not mine!” John snapped, folding his arms in frustration. He hadn’t thought this would have any effect on the detective and had said it more as a burst of anger than anything else so was actually surprised when the tapping of keys stopped and, although Sherlock didn’t look up from his phone, John could see his eyebrows had knitted together in confusion, real this time.

He tried again, sensing weakness in the detective. “Sherlock, just let me have a look? Please?” 

There was no reply and John thought he had failed but then Sherlock looked up, a hint of fear in his silver eyes, and gave a slight but obvious nod of acceptance.  
John sighed in relief as he pushed himself out of the chair and knelt before Sherlock who was still sat on the sofa. The detective held out his arm, somewhat cautiously, watching his friend with wary eyes . 

“Why did you hide it?” John asked quietly as he un-buttoned the cuff of his friend’s shirt, his nimble fingers careful on the sore limb. He let the detective pull up the sleeve himself before helping to settle the arm on a cushion that he had placed on the younger Holmes’ lap. He didn’t even wince when his arm was moved but John could see the pain he was hiding in his eyes. Sherlock said nothing in response to his friend’s question, deciding to simply stare at the bare arm which was now resting on his lap instead. John sighed and gave up hoping for a reply, turning his mind back to the examination at hand. 

The arm was badly swollen with dark bruises that faded just before the wrist. John knew instantly that his deduction had been right and the wrist was broken, although, thankfully, the bones did not appear to have moved. It would still have been painful though, very painful, and to think that Sherlock had been hiding it for three days… 

“Um, I need to turn it over now.” Said John eventually, breaking the silence. “Your arm, I mean…”

Sherlock nodded and then winced as he slowly rotated his arm, resting it on the cushion so the pale underside faced upwards, the fingers curling limply. The underside of the arm was just as bruised and swollen as the top although a couple of straight white lines stood out clearly on the marred skin. John bent closer, studying them with concern. At first he had thought they were simple scars, possibly from a case or a past experiment but as he thought deeper he realised what they were, worry instantly filling his mind. 

“Er, Sherlock? Did you ever have surgery on your arm?” John asked, the concern obvious in his voice as he glanced up at his friend.

“Yes, when I was eight. The break was worse that time though, and I was young and ignorant at the time.” Sherlock answered stiffly.

“I doubt you were ever ignorant Sherlock.” Muttered John, his attention focused as he ran his fingers gingerly along his friends arm. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as John’s fingers neared his wrist but he said nothing, choosing to suffer in silence than let his emotion fun free. The doctor couldn’t feel any displaced bones in the arm, however there was a strangely bumped area to the bone on either side of the arm. Eventually, John looked back up, thinking hard. 

“Um, Sherlock, Did they leave metal pins in your arm? When you were little?” he asked in confusion and concern.

“Yes” replied the detective shortly, refusing to meet the doctor’s eyes. John sighed, wondering what to do. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t want to go to the hospital but it was common knowledge for a doctor that having metal plates still in the arm could cause major problems if the bone was broken again. However, the more he thought about it the more he realised there was nothing else he could do. 

“I need to take you for an X-Ray, Sherlock” John said eventually, looking up at his friend in what he hoped was a calm and friendly way. This was normally the expression that he saved for small children up at the hospital but he knew that Sherlock could easily be classed as a child in many ways. 

“Can’t you just splint it here or something?” he asked, his voice slightly shakier than normal.   
John looked up at his friend, worried by the fear visible in his eyes. “I’m sorry Sherlock, but this is going to need the hospital” he said calmly

“No, John, please, no” Sherlock begged suddenly, his voice high with panic. “I can’t go, I can’t!” He didn’t want to go for an X-ray. They would ask him about the first break, he was sure they would, ask him how it happened. It was written on his record that he hadn’t said anything last time, not to the doctors, not to his mother, not to anyone. He brought he knees up to his chest, his arm now sandwiched between the pillow and his body but he didn’t feel the pain it caused. 

“Sherlock, you need to go to the hospital” instructed John, a strange sternness in his voice. It was the same strange strictness that his mother had used when she had tried to take him to the hospital all those years ago. She had asked nicely at first, just after Mycroft pointed out his discovery at the dinner table, knowing how quickly her youngest son’s moods could turn. When he had refused Mr Holmes had tried to pick up his son to carry him to the car whether he liked it or not. He had not expected the little eight year old child to fly into a panic-fuelled rage. Sherlock had kicked and screamed, fighting his way away from his parents and running to his room, locking himself in. It was Mycroft who had picked the lock and calmed his screaming brother enough to allow himself to be taken to the hospital for treatment on his now twisted arm. 

Sherlock shuddered at the memory, pressing his eyes onto his knees in desperation. Why all these memories? Why were they released? He had locked them away at the back of his Mind Palace all those years ago and they had been fine until now, hadn’t they? They had never disturbed his life before, so why now? Inside he knew why, it was obvious, but admitting it was weakness.

“Sherlock?”

It was John again, he sounded worried now, just like Mycroft had. No, no, no, don’t think like that! Forget it, push it away! But John was still calling, asking if he was okay, saying he was sorry for upsetting him. It was too similar. With a roar of frustration Sherlock leapt from the sofa, sending the pillow flying and making John jump back in surprise. He stumbled from the lounge, into his bedroom, slamming the doors behind him making the ornaments rattle on their shelves. 

John sat on the floor, too stunned to move, listening to the thuds and shatterings from Sherlock’s room. There was something wrong, dangerously wrong, and John knew he couldn’t fix by himself. With shaking hands he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone Harry had given him all those months ago. He flicked through his contacts, coming to rest on the one which he knew he needed but hardly dared to call. Sherlock would be angry if he did but there was no way he could be left as he was. Knowing there was no other option he pressed the green button. 

The dial tone sounded loudly as he raised the phone to his ear, dampening the smashes and thumps. The call answered on the second ring and a cool, collected man sounded in his ear, asking what was wrong.

“Mycroft” John whispered down the phone, interrupting the man. He took a deep breath, wondering how much he would regret this later. “I think something is wrong with Sherlock” he admitted quietly. The phone was silent for a second, as though the man was deciding what to do. Then he spoke again. 

“I’ll be right over” he said, the customary coolness gone from his voice.


	3. Chapter 3

The phone went dead, leaving only a quiet buzzing to fill his mind. Slowly John lowered the phone from his ear, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. He felt weak and shaky, as if all the energy had been zapped from his body. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, using the sofa for support, all the while wondering what he should do. Talking to Sherlock appeared out of the question judging by the crashing that still radiated from the detectives bedroom. That seemed the only option though; he needed to calm his friend down before he could hurt himself further. 

Another loud thud shook the flat and startled John from his thoughts, sparking him into action. He hurried across the room and into the hall, skidding to a stop outside the detective’s door, listening to the sudden unfolding silence from within. For some reason the silence scared him more than the thuds and crashes, at least they had been a sign that his friend was still alive. He drew in a breath before knocking attentively on the detective’s door, hoping with all his heart that he would get a reply. There was none. 

John knocked again, calling to Sherlock quietly, keeping his voice calm and comforting so as not to startle his friend. There was still nothing, not a reply, not a yell, not a sound. Worry struck John, sending horrid images into his mind’s eye. He pushed them back, letting his medical knowledge flood his thoughts, trying to detach himself from the situation. He knew bursting into Sherlock’s room could cause more damage than good but his friend was not responding to his calls and he wasn’t going to take any chances. He shut his eyes, mentally preparing himself for whatever he might find, and pushed open the door. 

The room was a mess from what John could see from the light of the door, the bed upturned and leaning against the wall, the wardrobe lying on its front, one of its doors pulled from the hinges and the contents thrown around the room. The wooden chest was on its side, two of its draws lying on the floor and another broken, the front hanging off at an angle. The periodic table had been removed from the wall and was now torn on the floor, its frame smashed, the glass glinting in the light from the hall. 

“Sherlock?” asked John quietly, when he was unable to see his friend in the cluttered and dark room. He listened carefully for a reply, and was disappointed but unsurprised when there wasn’t one. Silently he crept further into the room, leaving the door open to let in some light. 

Sherlock was sitting in the corner of the room, hiding behind the remains of the bed. He had his arms clasped around his legs, his chin resting on his knees, a look of terror on his pale face. John slowly knelt before his friend, not wanting to startle him but Sherlock didn’t appear to be aware of his presence at all. He was looking straight ahead, his eyes staring unseeingly and wide with fear. His lips were moving slightly, as if he was speaking, but no sound came out. John’s glance drifted from Sherlock’s face to the wrist that was still clamped around his legs. 

John noted that the left hand was holding tight to the right forearm, just below the elbow, presumably to keep his arms in place. The right arm was pressed tightly to his legs too but the hand was limp, the fingers curled and unresponsive. Sherlock’s wrist was no longer straight either, his hand hanging at a noticeably unnatural angle. John swore under his breath, knowing that he needed to treat Sherlock soon, to straighten the hand, to reline the bones and straighten the blood vessels. 

“Sherlock?” he asked again, putting a hand on his friend’s upper-arm, trying to pull him from trance. It had little effect though, only causing Sherlock’s already erratic breathing to speed further. He swallowed hard, unsure or what to do, not wanting to startle the detective further or send him into another blind panic. 

They sat like that for a while, John not wanting to move and Sherlock unable to. Suddenly the light levels in the room dropped further, sending the room into near pitch blackness. John looked up, puzzled, until his eyes came to rest on the neatly dressed figure of Mycroft Holmes in the doorway. Without saying a word the elder Holmes brother crossed the room and knelt next to John on the floor. He studied his baby brother closely, taking in the unseeing eyes, the slightly moving lips and the broken wrist in one careful glance.   
He leant forwards slightly, resting his hands rest calmly on Sherlock’s shoulders. He lowered his head, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes. “Sherlock”, He whispered, his voice barely audible even in the silent room. “Sherlock, listen to me, you’re safe now.” Sherlock didn’t appear to notice his brother or the comments until suddenly, with a relived exhale from Mycroft, his eyes slid shut and he collapsed sideways into his brothers arms. 

***

Sherlock ran from the living room, feeling the unwanted emotions building inside of him, needing to escape. His room was quiet and peaceful but it didn’t help to calm his mind, the memories kept coming. Of the boys at school, his parents, his teachers, all yelling, telling him he was a freak. Because that was what he was, a freak, a nobody, nothing worth caring for, and he knew it. The anger and fear was building inside him as the comments whirled in his head, desperate to escape. 

He slammed the door behind him, leaving the room in near darkness to try and calm his mind. He thundered round the room, trying to take out his anger and emotions by smashing and destroying, by physical exertion. He could feel the bones in his arm grinding dangerously but there was no pain, only the anger and frustration that coursed through his body. He knew that he needed to calm himself, banish the emotions and memories to the Mind Palace before he was forced there himself. It was a defensive side he had learnt all those years ago at school, to shut himself away from the bullies and the pain, keeping his precious brain safe and his body in a trance-like state. 

But now he didn’t want to go to his Mind Palace however he knew that it was coming, that he was unable to keep away. It was normally his place of calm, a haven of sorts in his childhood where he could lock away his memories and feelings and shut himself away from his body. But now the memories were free and swirling in his brain, the good the bad, the painful, all mixed together in a thundering mass of emotion. It wouldn’t be safe in his Mind Palace now, he would be trapped, unable to move or speak, unable to free himself from the torment as he was locked inside his head. 

He tried to calm himself, leaning against the wall in the corner of the room, but his senses were already dulling, the room blurring, until his legs were too week to stand and he sunk to the ground, pulling his arms around his legs, trying to hold himself together. There was a knock at the door, a voice calling to him, but he didn’t hear it, he was too far gone, already trapped inside his Mind Palace and unable to get free, back to his body and his sanity that resided there. 

Suddenly there was a hand, a hand on his shoulder, he could feel it there, just faintly at the back of his mind, a nagging pull dragging him back to his body, it was weak though, very weak, too weak to do anything, too weak to pull him from his Mind Palace and end the nightmare. He didn’t know how long he was there, wishing the hand could be stronger to save him from his torment but eventually something changed, another hand, a pair of hands, one on each shoulder, grounding him to his body and reality. There was a voice, too far away to make sense, merely just an echo in his mind, the words an indistinguishable muddle. 

Then the voice came again, closer this time, close enough for Sherlock to tell whose it was. It was Mycroft’s, his brother’s voice, the voice that always came to pull him free from the overwhelming tortures of his mind. He followed the voice with all his will, needing desperately to free himself, to return to the safety of his body, to Mycroft. Slowly his senses returned, the sounds of the room, the breathing of his brother and someone else, the throbbing pain in his arm, the weight of his head on his knees. Gradually he returned to his body, his mind back where it belonged, and his eyes slid shut, his face relaxing in upmost exhaustion. He could feel his body drooping, the muscles going limp and someone moving him slightly, tipping him back until his head rested on their chest. He was tired, so tired, he just wanted to sleep and that was fine, perfectly fine, because he was safe, because Mycroft had saved him again.


	4. Chapter 4

The bedroom was quiet, only the gentle breathing of the three men to break the silence. Mycroft was sitting in the corner of the room his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed over at the ankles. Sherlock had flopped over sideways his head now resting on his brother’s chest, his eyes shut and his face expressionless as he slept. He looked exhausted, his entire body slack, his breathing shallow and calm, so unlike the panicked gasps it had been mere minutes before. John was still kneeling on the floor in front of his friend, confusion and fear swimming in his mind. He didn’t know what had happened, it wasn’t something he had ever seen or heard of before. Whatever it was worried him though, just the thought of Sherlock sitting on the floor in his trance with that look of utter terror on his face sent shivers down his spine. It was Mycroft who finally broke the silence. 

“John,” he asked, not speaking much quieter than normal despite the fact his brother was asleep on his lap. “I need you to help me carry him to the sofa, his bed’s not exactly suitable for sleeping in now, is it?” 

John glanced to his left, looking unnecessarily at the slumped mattress and the broken wood that had one been Sherlock’s large bed. Then his thoughts returned to his sleeping friend, still curled up against the chest of his brother. John knew how much of a light sleeper his friend was so moving him seamed a stupid idea, really, considering he had just fallen asleep. He also knew how easily panicked people could become after they were suddenly moved in their sleep if they awoke, and after Sherlock had had such a traumatic time…

“We shouldn’t move him,” he said in his normally stern yet reasonable doctor’s voice. He could tell Mycroft was staring at him but he continued anyway, promising he would not be intimidated by the elder Holmes brother. “He could easily awake and panic and I don’t want him hurting himself further. He will have enough problems with his wrist any-” 

“John, he won’t wake,” Interrupted Mycroft, obviously impatient with John’s medical comments. 

At this John glanced up at the elder Holmes brother, wondering what he could have meant by the comment. He obviously knew something that John didn’t. And by the way he had reacted when he had first seen his brother made John sure that this had happened before, probably many times too. Eventually he nodded, knowing in all honesty that Mycroft would be right and Sherlock would not wake. 

Reluctantly, John shuffled forwards so that he was kneeling right beside Mycroft and, on the count of three, lifted Sherlock’s upper body so that the elder Holmes son could kneel up, holding his brother under the arm pits and raising him into a semi-sitting position. John couldn’t help but think that he looked like an oversized rag doll, his chin dropping down onto his chest, his body slumped and his arms trailing on the floor beside him. The right one was still awkwardly positioned but thankfully no bones were protruding through the skin. John thought for a second then bent back down and gently lifted the injured arm and rested it on the detective’s lap.

“Thank you, John,” Said Mycroft, his bold voice sounding even stronger in the near-silent room. John nodded in reply but said nothing, simply bending down and positioning himself beside Sherlock’s knees, getting ready to lift. With another quiet count of ‘three, two, one’ the two men staggered to their feet, the lanky detective held between them.   
Carrying Sherlock from his bedroom to the living-room was harder than John had originally thought considering the detective hardly ate and they were going very far anyway, although, the fact that Sherlock had destroyed his room didn’t really help. As they turned into the doorway of the lounge the detective’s injured arm had fallen from his lap and ended swinging beneath his limp body as they walked. It did complicate things as they had lowered him onto the long sofa, trying desperately not to trap the limb beneath him.   
Eventually Sherlock was lying on the sofa with his head on a pillow and his left arm resting on his stomach. Mycroft had helped to move the coffee table next to the sofa, leaving the papers and empty tea-stained mugs on the floor, so Sherlock’s right arm could be propped up on a cushion on the coffee table to keep it out of harm’s way. John was kneeling next to the sofa examining the limb thoroughly whilst Mycroft sat in John’s chair with his laptop perched on his legs. John felt his anger in Mycroft rise; did he even care about his brother at all?

With a huff of annoyance John turned back to his friend who was still lying unconscious on the sofa. He had already taken Sherlock’s pulse and was pleased to find it strong and regular and his breathing had returned to a much more natural rhythm. The right hand concerned him greatly and he knew he needed to straighten the bones but was reluctant to do it whilst Sherlock was asleep. The circulation appeared to be fine in his fingers anyway; John would just have to monitor that carefully to make sure it stayed that way.   
John sat down on the floor, leaning back against the sofa. He wanted to stay near Sherlock and, anyway, Mycroft was sitting in his chair. It was then he noticed how tired and hungry he was. He had been at the surgery all that day and he hadn’t had dinner yet, not that it was high on his list of priorities; he was too worried to eat. None of what had happened made any sense either. What had scared Sherlock so much about hospitals and what had happened to him in his bedroom? It was obvious Mycroft knew what had happened, so why wouldn’t he tell? 

“John, what has sherlock told you about his childhood?” Asked Mycroft suddenly, making John wonder if he and Sherlock could actually read minds. 

“Um, nothing really. We don’t really talk about that kind of stuff,” Mumbled John, slightly embarrassed by the fact he knew nothing about his friend’s past, bar the fact that drugs had somehow been involved. 

“No, but I’m sure he knows a lot more about you than you realise.”

“Probably. Where is this going?” asked John, slightly confused by Mycroft’s continuous comments. 

“It’s time you were told, we don’t want any more upsets, do we now?” said Mycroft, a smirk spreading across his face. John felt his hands ball into fists then forced himself to relax; he was beginning to see why Sherlock didn’t get on with his brother. 

Mycroft looked back at the laptop perched on his lap, clicked a few times and then turned in around so that John could see the screen from his seat on the floor. On the laptop screen was a photograph of a tiny baby with a mess of curly brown fluff on his head. He had alabaster skin and his silver eyes sparkled as he stared at the camera or, more likely, the person holding the camera. He was wearing a plain white baby grow as he lay in an expensive looking Moses basket. John had no experience with babies but could tell that the child in the photo could only have been a week or so old. 

“Is that?” he asked, glancing up at Mycroft in surprise. 

“Yes, Sherlock William Holmes, two weeks old exactly.” 

The picture on the computer screen changed, now showing a one-year Sherlock standing in a garden. He had a wooden sward in one hand and his other was balled up into a fist, rubbing at his closed eyes. He looked tired, ready for a nap, but there was a faint smile on his pink lips.

“He looks so happy,” sighed John, forgetting his embarrassment from sitting on the floor whilst having a conversation with the ’British Government’. 

“I know,” said Mycroft, a hint of sadness in his normally cold tone. He clicked again and the photo changed. 

The next six of pictures were similar to the first, showing a happy Sherlock in various stages of his young childhood. The last picture, and John’s favourite, was one of Sherlock when he was six. He was wearing his school uniform: little grey shorts with long grey socks, a white shirt, a navy, yellow and green striped tie, a navy jumper and a green woollen blazer on top. He was holding a tiny violin in one hand and a bow to match in the other and he was grinning widely, his hair flopping into his eyes. He was missing a tooth but John thought it looked cute and added to the childish innocence in the picture. 

“That’s the last photo to be taken before Sherlock started Prep School” Said Mycroft, a strange hint of regret in his voice. John glanced up, wondering what the elder Holmes brother had meant by that comment. 

“He changed after that, about the second week into his first term. He became quieter, subdued, stopped playing his violin as much. After half term he stopped talking, just sat in his room all day, reading. Other times he would go to his Mind Palace, he could stay there for hours, even days.” explained Mycroft, shutting his laptop with a snap. “Has Sherlock ever spoken to you about his Mind Palace?”

“No,” John admitted, feeling even more embarrassed as it was revealed how little he knew about his friend. 

“Sherlock’s Mind Palace is the filing system in his brain, where he stores everything from knowledge to his memories,” explained Mycroft, “I don’t really know much about it, Sherlock never would tell,” he confessed, sighing slightly. 

“I think he sorted his memories there, though,” he added after a moment’s silence, “he hid the unpleasant ones, the painful ones especially. He locked them away so they couldn’t bother him again”

“His memories?” asked John, raising his eyebrows as images of memory bubbles and filing cabinets filled his mind’s eye. 

“Hmm, yes,” muttered Mycroft approvingly. “Sherlock created himself a haven, a place to escape to in his mind, away from all the torment at school. He used to go there when the world became too much. It left his body in a trance-like state, no brain to control it” 

“So, today? That was his Mind Palace?” asked John slowly, still trying to make sense of what had happened. 

“Mmm, not quite,” admitted Mycroft, his eyebrows knitting together slightly, “I think that was where he tried to go, but something went wrong and the memories he had locked away were freed.”

John thought for a moment, about the minutes before Sherlock had ran to his room, the moments when John had first examined his broken wrist. “It was to do with his wrist, wasn’t it?” asked John quietly. “He panicked when I tried to take him to the hospital” 

“Yes, John, I believe so,” said Mycroft grimly, “You see, when Sherlock was eight he broke his wrist. It was the same one. We tried to take him to the hospital but he panicked, much like what he did tonight. The X-Ray showed his arm had been twisted behind his back but he had said nothing. I’m sure you have seen the scars where they pinned the bone, John. I think that what happened tonight reminded him too much of that first break and the memory freed itself, pulling the others with it.” 

There was more silence, both John and Mycroft considering what had been said. This time it was John who broke the silence, asking the question that had been swirling in his brain since Mycroft had first mentioned it. 

“So what did happen, when he first broke it?” he asked reluctantly, mentally preparing himself for the worst. 

“Nobody knows,” admitted Mycroft eventually, the regret obvious in his normally icy tone. He closed his eyes, letting his head droop, his face a mixture of sadness and despair and, for the first time since he had met the elder Holmes brother, John found himself believing that Mycroft actually cared for his baby brother.


End file.
